


Drinking Partners

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Thor And Remy [1]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Drinking, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor goes out for a drink one evening, away from the other Avengers, and makes himself a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thor moves swiftly into the bar not far from the Avengers tower, interested in taking in the taste of the ale that can be found on Midgard. Such things are not strong, but they taste good enough, and although the alcohol does not succeed in numbing his spirits, it can often attract his attention to be entertained for time enough.

He takes his seat at the bar next to a fellow of six feet or so, with thick hair and a long overcoat. Undoubtedly, he will make a good drinking companion!

“Good lady!” Thor greets the woman behind the bar, who is blonde and smiling; she regards Thor with a sort of fond amusement, as she has met him prior to this. Her name is Catherine, and she is a woman of fine wit. Thor muchly enjoys her company. “A flagon of your finest ale, and another of whatever this fellow is having!”

The man turns to look at Thor with eyebrows raised; he wears glasses for the sun, despite the fact that they are inside, and it has been dark for many hours now. A black band holds his hair out of his eyes – it is thick, and shining, and Thor appreciates the sight of it. “Well, thank you, mon ami, that's mighty kind of ya.” The man says, and Thor beams at him. “You're that Thor guy, right?”

“That is correct, good sir!” Thor says brightly, and the man nods his head with a little grin on his face; his cheeks are painted over with a patchy stubble, and his jaw is a strong one; he smells of cologne and whiskey. Thor considers asking how he knows of Thor, but such a thing would be silly to query – they broadcast so many things on their _televisions_ , and news travels ever so fast. “What is your name?”

“Remy.” The man says, and his accent is so different and new to him – Thor has never heard a Midgardian lilt like this man's own. The Midgardians, oh, what a range of truly fascinating cadences their voices can be made musical with! “Remy LeBeau.”

“You areFrench?” Thor asks curiously; although the accent is foreign, the man had called him “mon ami”, and “LeBeau” sounds like French, though when Natasha has spoken the language in his presence, it had not sounded as this fellow pronounces it.

“Nawh, son, I'm afraid not. I'm _Cajun_. We got French, sure, but _c'est le cadien_ ; we ain't like the _**French**_ French. We live on the bayou, not the river Seine.” Remy does not sound _bitter_ , as such; he sounds like he may scoff at the thought of being called French. Ah, how interesting that a realm can be so small, and yet be divided into so many different and prideful nations.

“Please, my friend, tell me about this _bayou!_ ” Thor asks, for he is ever so curious about all he learns of Midgard, and a bayou is not something he knows of. Remy LeBeau tilts his head slightly as Catherine puts the next glass of whiskey next to his hand, watching Thor with a curiosity a mirror to that on Thor's own face.

The man looks fatigued, of course, fatigued in a way that tugs at Thor's heart – it's a wariness of the world that Thor has seen in so many men, and so many women.

“Ya really wanna hear 'bout the bayou from old Remy here?” He asks, and Thor bows his head in the affirmative.

“I know not of this place, and am eager to learn.” He agrees in a rumble, and Remy laughs a little; his shoulders, which had been sadly lowered and slumped, seem to raise slightly. Thor feels a sense of pleasant satisfaction at having renewed a stranger's confidence so easily, even if only on the _slightest_ level.

“Well, bayou ain't exactly a _place_ , cher...” The man says, and he takes a sip of his drink, regarding Thor thoughtfully. “Bayou means a big sorta river space – like swamps, a lotta the time. I was born in New Orleans, Lousiana. You know like that song by The Animals?”

“I do not.” Remy gives a little laugh, and he lowers his glasses to _wink_ at Thor before he moves to stand, flicking a coin into the device he knows as a “jukebox” to the side of the room. It is a charming device that plays music, and Thor watches as one of the black discs – a _record_ – is put into play.

As he walks back to the seat, Thor listens to the music intently, but he cannot focus completely on the lyrics and the melody, though it is a capable and pleasant rendering to the ear: he thinks of the man's eyes.

Never has he seen a Midgardian with eyes so black and red.

Thor reaches out very carefully, but the other flinches away when he does so: Thor spreads his hands and lowers his head slightly, plainly apologetic. “I am sorry, my friend. I wished only to remove your sunglasses.”

“That's a pretty _tender_ action for a stranger, cher.” The man says, and Thor hears his disapproval plainly.

“My apologies! I meant no offence.” Thor says solemnly. There is a short pause, and then he says, “You are a mutant?” Mutants, so Thor is aware, are the beginning of further evolution – many of them have powers that are on levels with that of Asgardian seiðr, and some show their mutation visibly.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Remy hisses at Thor, and he shakes his head vehemently. “Ain't the sorta word you bandy 'round all casual-like in a place like this, mon ami. You gonna get Remy in some trouble.”

“Trouble?” Thor repeats. Remy LeBeau shifts his form slightly in his seat, either discomfited or uncertain how to answer the question – perhaps both. He frowns slightly, his brow furrowing, and he regards the other man carefully.

“Mutants ain't exactly looked on all friendly, mon ami.” Remy mutters, and Thor drains his glass.

“I understand.” Thor says, and then repeats, “My apologies once more. Please, Remy – would you do me the honour of telling me of this bayou of which you spoke before?”

“You a nice boy, huh?” Remy asks, and Thor smiles at him.

“I see no reason to be unpleasant to a fellow so pleasant.” Remy lets out a quiet scoff of sound, apparently disagreeing. All the same, though, he continues on.

“So, New Orleans...”

Thor finds that he enjoys the company of Remy LeBeau. The man speaks well enough, is warm and friendly in a way Thor delights in; his humour is smooth and sharp, and he takes well to plays on words.

More importantly, he defines things readily as quickly as Thor asks after them – terms such as ami, cher, poker, gator, Cajun and so forth are all clearly explained in terms that are comfortable for him. Thor is pleased with each new nugget of information he attains where Midgard is concerned – such a fascinating realm, and _gators_ sound like formidable beasts.

“What is _gumbo_?” Thor asks, and Remy LeBeau gasps in a dramatic fashion, clutching at his chest.

“Oh, you poor poor _soul_. Y'ain't never had gumbo, Thor? You ain't _lived_. T'sais quoi, here, here-” Remy produces a playing card from his pocket, an ace of diamonds, and a pen. With that, he begins to rapidly write digits onto the side of it. “You call Remy, cher, and Remy'll make you the best gumbo y'all can find this side'a New York, ya hear?”

Thor beams at him, his expression warm and delighted, and he takes the card, putting it into the breast pocket of his Midgardian jacket. Remy sways a little, and he stands slowly, his knees weakening momentarily; Thor catches him by the forearms and keeps him from falling.

“Remy, you have my _sincere_ gratitude, and I should be delighted to join you for “gumbo” at some time! Alas, it is late, and I ought retire for the evening – might I assist you in returning home first?”

“I ain't- I don' need- Thor, mon ami, dis is sweet, that ya care, but ya know, Remy is _just_ fine-”

“Remy is somewhat inebriated.” Thor interrupts in a grave tone, and the mutant laughs a little, leaning against Thor; he is warm, and although he is tall by Midgardian standards, Thor is four inches taller. They embrace in an impromptu fashion, and Thor does not complain about the effective hug of Remy against his chest – he pats the other man's back affectionately. “Come, my friend, we shall journey home together.”

“Aw- alright, brother, alright.” Remy relents, and Thor is momentarily struck by the word. _Brother._ On some level, of course, Thor is aware that on Midgard one calls others brother in a casual fashion – it is affectionate as Remy's other names, perhaps, but on Asgard, one calls only one's brothers _brothers_ , or those who are close enough to be so in all ways but blood.

Thor thinks of Loki, and his heart is heavy for a second or two.

“Thor? Thor, son, y'alright? 'Cause Remy-”

“Remy, on my belt I carry many millennia, in your terms. I am unlikely to be your son.” Thor jokes, and Remy laughs, a belly laugh that distracts him from the tired grief Thor had allowed himself to show for a second or so. “Come, let us go. Catherine, I offer tender as payment for your service and the drinks proffered!”

“No problem, honey. See you some other time.” The good barwoman says with a nod of her head, and Thor supports Remy from the room.

He supports Remy home and follows the mutant's directions, leaning down and keeping his arm under the other's shoulders. Remy's apartment is on the ground floor, and it has a small garden of herbs and small plants. Thor looks at it with interest as he takes Remy up the path, and Remy drunkenly fumbles with his keys until Thor carefully takes them and unlocks the door himself.

“I will call you, Remy.” He says politely, with a nod of his head, and Remy laughs, patting the taller man's face with such a warm and physical affection Thor could almost believe himself back home amongst Asgardians, who are not so shy of touching each other as humans can be here.

“You do that, cher, you do that. Remy'll always pick up.” He removes the sunglasses – shades, Natasha would call them – and Thor sees that his eyes are as different from the usual as he had thought at first glimpse. “You have a good night, brother.”

“Yes, you too.” Thor says, warmly, pleasantly, as he steps away from the other's doorstep. He does not return the term of affection – it is too serious for a man he has only just met, even if Remy himself knows nothing of the implications. “I am glad to have made such a charming new friend.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 “Remy?” Thor asks after dialling the number he had received last night into the phone Tony Stark had readily provided him with once he had come down to Midgard on a semi-permanent basis, as part of the Avengers.

“Hi? Dis Remy, cher, but who's dat?”

“Oh, Remy, it is Thor. This evening just past, we drank together, if you recall.” There's a short pause, drawn out; Thor feels he oughtn't interrupt the silence the other man has imposed, but after a few awkward moments he wonders if he ought. And then, Remy breaks it.

“Didn't think ya'd call, cher.” Remy says, sounding somewhat bemused, and Thor chuckles.

“Come, you tell such glorious tales, and you have promised me gumbo, dear friend! You truly expected I would go on without seeking more of your company?”

Remy's momentary repetition of the silence perhaps answers the question. “Well, yeah, cher, but I mean- didn't think ya'd call so _soon._ You really like Remy dat much, huh?” Remy gives a little laugh on the other end of the line, and Thor delights in the pleasant and husky chuckle, slightly surprised though it does sound.

“Come, my good friend, let us spend an evening together tonight! Perhaps I might best you at bowls!”

“B-boules? You play _boules_?” Remy asks, sounding somewhat surprised. Why so, Thor wonders? Surely, bowls is a considerably enjoyable game, for all he has heard tell from Clint and Natasha; they play regularly.

“I have not previously partaken in the game, by sport or pleasure, but I should like to! I am told alleys for the game are quite common in this city.”

“Oh, oh, ami, you mean _bowling_ , non? C'n'est pas la même.” Remy says affectionately, and Thor feels his cheeks flush just slightly for the sake of his embarrassment. “Boules is a diff'rent game, real diff'rent, but Remy'll play ball and pins wit'cha, Thor. You wanna, uh, you wanna meet me on the corner, outside da bar?”

“Yes, my friend, I shall be there immediately!” Thor says delightedly, and he wonders what _boules_ is, if this game is called bowling. He adjusts his things in Avengers tower, pulling on a jacket – it is not for the sake of cold, of course, as he feels the Midgardian temperatures little. They are not so extreme as what Thor has experienced in his time, and moreover, he has a higher tolerance for _all_ things, temperature only a small extreme to bear.

“Hey, big guy. Where're you going?” Tony asks as he moves towards the elevator, and Thor affects his features with a warm and affectionate expression, looking down at Stark delightedly.

“Out!” Thor proclaims delightedly, and Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Uh huh.” There's a pause. Thor wonders if he's meant to say something, as Tony is still looking at him expectantly. “Uh, out where, man?” Ah, of course. Tony is a curious fellow!

“Bowling.” Thor says, and then he sets off towards the elevator again. “No doubt I shall greet you on the morrow, Man of Iron! Quickly must I fly!” The metal doors clink shut, and Tony is left in the middle of the corridor, wondering why (and with _who_ ) Thor Odinson is going _bowling._

_\---_

“Remy!” Thor greets the other warmly, and immediately he pulls Remy to his chest in order to embrace the mutant in the customary fashion; Remy lets out a quiet grunt against Thor's neck but hugs him anyway. Thor finds much delight in their height difference – funny, how Asgardians are so often so much taller than these mortals!

“Ah, salut, Thor, how you doin'?” Remy returns, and he stumbles a little when the Æsir lets him go, apparently having been somewhat surprised by the sudden and affectionate hug.

“I am well! And you?”

“I'm pretty good, cher. So, what's your t'ing about bowlin', huh?” Remy asks as they begin to walk down the street, and Thor gives a thoughtful _hum_ of sound.

“So the others have said, it is an enjoyable game, worthy of much time spent in its play.” Thor says firmly, with a resolute nod of his head, and Remy seems to accept this as an answer, continuing to walk alongside the Æsir.

“I ain't passionate 'bout it, but it's a pretty fun game, non?”

“I have not played before.”

“Oh, you gon' love dis, then.” Remy says, and he punches Thor lightly in the arm; the action is affectionate, and Thor _beams_ at having brought some fondness from Remy LeBeau.

Thor offers the correct bills when booking themselves a slot on the alley, and Thor examines the selection of bowling balls with a small frown of interest, considering which to select. They are of a wide-ranging set of colours, and are also of different sizes. “Which do I select?” He asks, seeking Remy's counsel with little fear for doing so, and Remy looks up, thoughtful.

“Oh, you pick the one for the size o' your hand, beau. Say, for you, is this one.” He taps a green ball with a golden 9 emblazoned on its side, and Thor picks it up, slotting his thumb and forefingers into the holes. “Hold it like this.” Remy says lightly, holding up his own ball, and Thor mimics the other's positioning of the ball, thoughtful.

Remy moves towards the primitive tablet they utilize for the games, and he taps in their names for the screen above. Thor examines the simple grid laid out on the screen.

“Now, cher, I'm-a tell ya something _real_ important.” Remy says, looking at Thor seriously before saying, “Y'can't throw the ball too hard, d'accord? That _Asgardian_ strength o'yours'll smash these pins if you ain't too careful, huh?”

“ _D'accord_.” Thor says in return, taking on Remy LeBeau's use of the word, and the Cajun _grins_ at him, looking happier than he has yet. Thor cannot help but wonder if his eyes smile too behind his sunglasses, but he has no wish to push for the other man to remove his sunglasses if it might cause him damage or worry.

He watches at Remy steps fluidly forward, and he watches the movement of his feet and his hands carefully as he sends the ball forwards. He watches the speed of the ball, and considers how much force he needs to implement to attain a similar speed. The ball hits the pins with a loud clamour, and nine of them go down, leaving one up.

Remy throws a second, and he manages to take the left hand pin down also. “That's called a spare.”

Thor moves forwards and does as Remy had just done, and his ball hits the pins, sending all of them careening to the sides. He turns to LeBeau with a delighted expression.

“And _that_ is a strike, cher.”

They play four games, and his initial strike turns out to be a fluke; they win two games apiece, and then they settle to eat in the small burger joint in the bowling alley.

“You really can pack those away, huh?” Remy asks, watching as Thor finishes his third burger, and the Æsir shrugs his shoulders.

“Midgardian portions are often too small.”

“You won't have that problem at my house, cher.”

“Ah, _yes!”_ Thor says delightedly, and he grins, regarding LeBeau with a pleased expression. “I would feel honoured to sample your _chowder_.”

“Aha, honoured?” Remy repeats, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, and Thor wonders how low this man's esteem must be, that he truly believes Thor does not like his company, but Thor is so _pleased_ to have made a noble new friend such as LeBeau.

“Yes, my friend. _Honoured_.” Thor says firmly, and he eats another fry.

“How's Saturday sound, huh?” Remy asks, and he seems almost _shy_ in the offer.

“It sounds _good._ ” Thor says lightly, with an easy nod. “Saturday.”


End file.
